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October 13, 2009

This is the preliminary work for a new series I’ve started. For this project I’m using Wittgenstein, G. Stein, and Frankenstein in conjunction with my own research on Emiliano Zapata, the Mexican revolutionary, trying to tease out resonances. The final project, as envisioned, would pair the gnoetry poems with snippets of Zapata’s story, along with my own ruminations on love, the internet, memory, the role of the leftist intellectual, and the specter of Obama. I have, as you will see, replaced some of the pronouns given to me by gnoetry with Zapata’s name, other than that they remain as given.


What is one bottle? One is
only the use of brackets. Zapata

did not feel the future. With
trembling steps, as sometimes they

were. Such a red is in the centre
of Switzerland; it has a

sash. Snow fell into his hands, and
being overbearing, withdrew.


Young men should be possible
to suggest wounding, incapable

of the stimulation of coming
to be heard amid the streets,

in spite of everything. They
all have felt, as if a pen held by

all, as I feel. Zapata performed the
service of showing that the sea

roared; and this was left me –
no, not the facts, a resemblance.


Zapata was small, bound close
by the divisions in his

body. He worked up her veil, and she
knelt, ascertaining

his authority. I could not help
being struck by the greatest fear,

lest my fire should be reserved to
discover him a villain.


Zapata looked patient yet sad. His
limbs failed him as he walked.

It gave pleasure to his
protectors. He was dressed

in possibility, a blot
upon a world in stretches. My

voice was indignant; my lips to such
a man, an old one with a strange

multiplicity. Yet why
do we dream? My country was copper.


White and color and more
is gone; Zapata must not be

virtuous. If it be written
down, it was an answer.

We should have a daughter,
but I cannot consent.


I sing and I sing, continuing
being a habit. I write a

few minutes, and one. The point where
the flowers of spring bloomed in the

streets of the complete expression, there
were women weeping around;

and in fact, this was it until
the moon and the end of sitting.


We received a map of the
torture. The sound proceeded from land.


Fear overcame Zapata; the
caves of the things he was not.

To an echo and more, more
than half his misfortune – he was

to become an offering, the
only object that harnesses.

A child, in arranging
the paint shows that culture is this.


Thus ended the day. Zapata’s mind
is now dead yet found a dwelling.

Come on horseback, for no man
is a bare perpendicular rock!


A few years will chill your
ship. A curtain is a

burst of explanation, and a
colored sky a spectacle. You

will then have a sense, and make it true.
So then the last column by

itself will be soft, not so stern
as romantic. The system

is washing, the hierarchies
are contradictory.


An hour passed, and soon
my mind, and yet, in the

mouth is in an order. One could
be one, it is true, sensibly

in mathematics. It cannot be
more. The expression is what

will say it is not telling
everything, in a certain

sense, that from the dark red
trees, all this makes that sun.


When he returned to us, he was
bigger, not merely a

petty experimentalist.
He did not feel for those

on the top of affairs
who could perceive his calm

in left over bundles.
I sat up much longer,

conversing with his desires
like a flood of strangers.

Shelley, 1Frankenstein
Gertrude, 2SteinTender
Wittgenstein, 4Wittgen
Gertrude, 3SteinPicasso

One Comment leave one →
  1. erogk7 permalink
    October 15, 2009 11:49 pm

    I like that you added the Zapata element to this -steinian project. I'd be interested in some of the excerpts you're thinking of including. I read the Wikipedia page on Zapata today, but that's all I've read on the subject. Very ambitious and intriguing.

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